


Drink

by zillsonfire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, Drink Spiking, John is a Bit Not Good, M/M, Mystrade is our Division FB Prompts, POV Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Turnabout is Fair Play, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-17 20:31:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18105929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zillsonfire/pseuds/zillsonfire
Summary: “I take it this means he and John haven’t figured it out yet?”





	Drink

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a Mystrade is our Division prompt. My first instinct was to call this scenario highly improbable. Then I remembered The Infamous Christmas Punch and wondered if it wasn’t so improbable after all. I’m sure I’m not the first one to think of it either way :)
> 
> As always, constructive criticism is welcome.

Mycroft ascends the steps to 221B briskly. He is annoyed. He hasn’t slept well for weeks, he’s had a day full of frustrating meetings, pedantic emails, and clueless civil servants, and the moment--the _very moment_ \--he’d had a chance to sit down and catch his breath, Sherlock had summoned him for some “emergency”. “This had better be good, brother mine,” he calls as he opens the door. 

John looks up from his laptop. “He’s just texted. Says he’ll be along shortly,” he replies in the bland, slightly flat tone he always saves for Mycroft. 

“‘Along shortly’?” Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath. “Of course. Of _course_ he will.” He crosses to the window and glares down at the street, as though he can summon his brother by the force of his gaze alone. “This is an _abominable_ waste of my time.” 

“Well, it is what it is: you’re here now; he isn’t. Belabouring the point will just make us both miserable.” John gestures to the whiskey decanter. “Have a drink while you wait.” He turns back to the screen, frowning slightly as he resumes his laborious keyboard rhythm. 

Mycroft sighs again and turns back to the room. There’s something off here, but it’s been a very long, very trying day, and he can’t quite pin down what it is. He moves to the drinks tray without a word and pours a stiff measure, taking the glass with him back to the window. “Did he at least tell you what this _emergency_ was all about?” 

“Not a clue.” 

It’s only after Mycroft takes a generous mouthful of his drink that he sees how close John is watching him. Too late, he tastes the faint bitter aftertaste in his throat. “What--” he looks down at his glass, appalled at his lack of observation, feeling weakness wash over him in a sudden wave. “You--” 

John walks over, smiling, claps his shoulder, and leads him to Sherlock’s chair by the fire. His legs are already buckling as John’s hand pushes him down. _What is this, that it works so quickly?_ he wonders, as his vision begins to mist over. _Sherlock--why?--what?--_

“Don’t worry mate,” John says, amusement in his voice, “it won’t hurt a bit. I’m told I once lost an entire Wednesday to this one, without even knowing.” 

~~*~~ 

Mycroft stirs as he wakes, reluctant to open his eyes. He’s naked beneath the sheets, and the warm weight of an arm lies heavy across his side. He smiles, arches his back into a stretch, and it’s only then he realizes that the angle of the light is wrong. The sounds from the window aren’t right either, and instead of the warm smells of leather and beeswax polish, his nostrils detect faint tinges of damp and John’s aftershave. He starts, only to have the arm around him tighten, a hand splaying on his chest, holding him close. He turns his head just as a familiar voice rumbles and warm brown eyes open to meet his. 

Greg smiles sleepily, then comes suddenly, fully awake, sitting up in the bed. “What the--” He scrubs his hand through his hair, looking around the unfamiliar room. “Myc? Where are we? What are we doing here?” 

Understanding comes in a rush. “Sherlock,” Mycroft answers. “This must be his idea of a joke.” 

“I should have known something was out of order when he offered to make me coffee,” Greg says ruefully, leaning back against the headboard. He slants his gaze sideways. “I take it this means he and John haven’t figured it out yet?” 

“Hmm.” Mycroft smiles. “It seems that despite his vaunted powers of deduction, he has not yet managed to discern the truth.” 

“Well,” Greg murmurs, sliding down to embrace Mycroft once more, “guess the joke’s on him, then.” Mycroft feels Greg’s mouth on his shoulder as a hand slides slowly down his torso, caressing his sternum, his stomach, then deliciously lower. “How long do you think we have before they expect us to kick off?” 

Mycroft feels a little spark of wickedness that hadn’t existed until a few months ago bloom deep in the pit of his stomach. “Long enough, I expect,” he whispers. He stretches an arm up and cradles the back of Greg’s neck. “He will discover us, though. The minute he enters the room, he’ll know.” 

“He’ll find out anyway,” Greg chuckles. “Might as well turn the joke back on him.” He adjusts his position, turning Mycroft onto his back, easing himself between the other man’s thighs. “Now, if the Honorable Member will demonstrate his infamous composure and be very, _very_ quiet..” 

Mycroft lets his hands drift down and buries his fingers in silver strands of hair. He throws his head back and calls on all of his reserves of strength to breathe slowly, deliberately, _quietly_ … 

~~*~~ 

John looks up from his evening paper and grins at Sherlock as a loud bang and a rough “what the _HELL--_ ” erupt from upstairs. They laugh helplessly as feet stomp and shuffle above their heads, and by the time Greg and Mycroft erupt into the sitting room, they’re both in tears. 

Greg stabs a finger in their direction. “I don’t know _what_ you thought that was, Sherlock, but mark my word, you’ll regret it,” he fumes, before turning on his heel and barging down the stairs. Mycroft, raising an eyebrow as he pointedly adjusts his cuffs, says nothing before following him down. 

John, still laughing and wiping the tears from his eyes, sees Sherlock suddenly go still and alert in his chair. 

“What?” he asks. 

Sherlock springs up and leaps for the stairway. He’s already on his way back down by the time John reaches the foot of the stairs, face pale, eyes burning. 

“What?” he asks again. 

Sherlock moves around the room restlessly, unable to settle, until he finally flops down on the sofa. He puts his arm over his face. “He’s right John. As inconceivable as it is to admit it, he’s right. I regret it,” he says, voice muffled by his shirtsleeve. Sighing, he scrubs his face with his hands, and shudders. “I’d wash those sheets quickly, if I were you.” 

John does a double-take. “You _what_?” he says in alarm. “You can’t--you can’t mean--” 

“Yes, John. Yes. Ridiculous not to have seen it earlier.” Sherlock sits up again and ruffles his hair. “Bah. There’s always _something_.” 

John is momentarily rooted to the floor, mouth agape. Then he shakes himself, heaves an exasperated sigh, and goes to start his laundry.


End file.
